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“How much time we got, you figure?” the nurse whispers to the sailor. They shuffle, giggling and groping at each other, into a darkened corner of the old church. It’s as far as they can get from the hustling and bustling command center hidden under the floorboards without raising suspicions.
Their practiced hands find and fiddle with the buttons and zippers on their crisp white uniforms. Uniforms it took the nurse forever to find, mend, tailor, and clean to a presentable state. But, seeing the sailor standing in front of him in her enlisted dress whites, and the wide-eyed stare and smirk on her face as she looked him up and down in his nurse’s uniform made all the scavving, sewing, and scrubbing worth it.
“Ten... fifteen maybe? Drummer’s walking around with a folder. It’s probably for one of us,” Charlotte replies, voice low and breath warm over the nurse’s ear. He can smell the cigarettes she keeps saying she’ll quit on her breath.
“Ten’s good. I can make ten work,” Deacon says, trying convince himself that he has a solid ten minutes alone with her. Away from everyone. Just them. Quiet. Like it used to be.
Charlotte hums in agreement, pressing her lips against Deacon’s ear.
He reaches down to flick open the button on her white pants, but she brushes his hand away.
“We’ve only got ten and I really,” Charlotte kisses his throat, “really,” a kiss against his jaw, “really,” a final kiss, wet and soft, against his mouth, “want under your skirt.”
“What a coinkydink,” he brushes his lips over hers, purring, “because under my skirt is exactly where I want you.”
Her sudden snicker gets him giggling before he shushes them both in the quiet darkness of the church.
“‘Coinkydink’? Really?” she whispers through his shushing.
“I saw an opportunity and I took it. Is bravery not a turn on for you?” Deacon wraps his leg up and over her hip, pulling her against him.
“I don’t know that I’d call it bravery,” her laughter swallowed by another kiss.
Charlotte drags her long fingers up along the leg he’s pressed against her hip. Over a pair of smooth stockings, and slipping under his skirt.
“Just the nylons, huh?” she palms his ass over the spandex. His cock stiffens.
“You honestly think I’d put on a skirt and ruin the look with panty lines?” he scoffs, “I’m offended.” He scoffs again.
They shuffle and scoff their way through the church’s pews. Lit by whatever fires or lanterns burn outside on the street, deeper into the corner of the abandoned church, and towards a lonely pew in the corner. He hopes she finds it with her shins before he does.
The sailor cusses as her shin smacks against the pew. She turns them both, offering him a hand to lower himself onto the rough wooden seat. He brushes his skirt away from under him, figuring it’d be easier to clean off his ass than the vintage skirt he has on. He scoffs a final time, clicking his tongue for emphasis.
“I honestly don’t know what I was thinking. Of course just nylons,” she acquiesces.
She sinks to her knees in front of him and cusses under her breath again. He hears something small and wooden slide away from them across the floor before he feels her hands on his knees, pushing his thighs apart. She dances her fingers along the inside of his thighs, under the hem of his skirt, over his hips, and brushing her thumbs along the waistband of his stockings.
“Careful, careful,” he whispers into the dark. “If you put a run in these-”
“I won’t, I won’t.”
Goosebumps prickle his skin as cool fingertips slip under the nylon’s tight elastic waistband and begin to roll the material down over his hips. His skin tingles as the material slips away.
Deacon stifles a moan through his nose as the stockings slip over his cock and down his thighs to his knees.
“I’m serious,” he clears his throat, “if you put a run in my two-hundred year old stockings I will divorce you.”
“When did we get married?” the sailor sits back on her heels, chuckling. She trails her fingers up and down the stockings’ seams along the back of his calf and he shivers.
“We didn’t, but I’d marry you just to divorce you. Irreconcilable differences, and the stockings would be my evidence. No jury would convict.”
He can’t see her eyes roll in the darkness, but he can feel it. He can feel the centrifugal pull of her eyes spinning in their sockets.
The nurse takes a deep breath as he feels his skirt lift to his waist. The sailor presses her lips against the tender, red indents his stockings left around his hips. He untucks and plucks open the buttons of his thin white shirt, the sailor follows his fingers with her mouth, leaving a trail of small kisses through the sparse coppery hair from his navel to his chest.
He pulls his sailor into a deep kiss. One that leaves them breathless. He’s lost count, but he’s sure it’s been a hundred kisses from the exit of HQ to here, and he’s good for a few dozen more if she is.
She walks his ass to the edge of the pew. His hard cock brushes against the rough polyester of her pants. He rocks his hips, rubbing himself against her thigh while they kiss, while he fills his palms with her tits. He rolls what he thinks could be her nipples through the thick fabric of her shirt under his thumbs.
Charlotte doesn’t respond. They’re probably not her nipples.
She sits back on her heels, wrapping her hand around the base of his cock. She leans in, brushing past it, to leave a kiss on the inside of his thigh. She rakes her teeth against his skin, sucking a bruise into place. With the sting, he sucks in a sharp inhale
“Love when you do that,” he murmurs.
He feels her smile against the inside of his thigh before adding another. They’ll look good and purple during tomorrow’s day shift. He’ll feel them when he slides his jeans on, he’ll feel them for a few days as his inseam brushes over them, and he’ll remember tonight in the church.
Charlotte runs her tongue along his balls, before sliding it along the underside of this cock and sinking him into her mouth. He exhales. Her hand cups his balls, squeezing them in her palm. He begins to tense.
“Easy on the kiwis,” he hums and her grip loosens.
His head lolls backwards over the edge of the pew as he loses himself in the sensations. Her warm wet mouth, the shape of her between his knees, and the sound of her hand sliding along his slick shaft. Tightness begins to wind itself around the base of his spine and build in his balls.
“Look at me,” Charlotte gives a quiet command.
He does as he’s told and lifts his head up. His head spins and his balls tighten as takes in the sight of his own skirt bunched around his waist, his stockings pooled around his ankles, and a sailor sucking him off. It’s like he’s seen in the magazines people shoved under their mattresses in the old days.
Deacon hums as he plucks Charlotte’s white bucket hat from her head and rakes his fingers through her dark hair, dragging it away from her face, “Can’t take my eyes off you.”
What little light spills through the broken windows of the church catches all of her edges; the shell of her ear, the corner of her jaw, the hollow of her cheek, the horizon of her shoulder, the knuckles on her hand wrapped around his shaft. Edges soft and sharp that become more familiar as days ticks away.
Sweat runs down the length of his spine as he arches his back. The rough wooden pew digs into his ass each time he rocks forward to meet her mouth.
Raising his hips from the pew, and wrapping her hair in his hand to hold her head steady, he thrusts into her mouth, quick and shallow. He huffs as the tip of his cock rubs against the roof of her mouth.
In a sudden move, her hands wrap around his hips and push him back down onto the rough wooden pew.
“Fuck,” he hisses.
She pauses. He can feel her begin to pull away.
“Nonono, good ‘fuck’, good ‘fuck’,” he babbles, intercepting her check-in.
Charlotte shrugs, and then matches the speed he set on his own, herself. His toes curl in the modest white high heels he bought for a song off a trader in Bunker Hill. He hopes they didn’t get scuffed on the-
The squeeze of her hands on his hips pulls him back. He tests the strength in her arms by rocking his hips against them and feeling the little bit of give and her push back. They pin him where he sits, making his heart race and the coils of his orgasm wind tighter in the cradle of his hips.
Deacon knows his limits. All of them. He has to. It’s part of the job. This particular one shifts and changes, but he knows it all the same. He can feel the edge of it sneaking up behind him.
“Gonna come,” he pants.
Charlotte pulls his cock from her mouth with a wet pop, “Where?”
Decision making this close to his orgasm is cruel and she should feel bad.
“Y-your mouth,” he stammers. “Don’t swallow.”
“Okay.” She wraps her lips around his cock and wiggles the tip of her tongue against the sensitive spot right under the head. He gasps.
In seconds, the tightness winding at the base of his cock unravels and he comes. He bites down on his own lip to stifle his moan as waves of euphoria cascade under his skin.
She swirls her tongue around the head of his cock and he shudders with every swipe until he pulls himself from her mouth.
Deacon reaches for her hands, pulling Charlotte up to straddle his lap from where she kneels, and rests them on his chest as he catches his breath. Even in the dim light, he can see her lips are swollen and chapped. The weight of her against him is comforting as his pulse hammers in his ears.
He drags his hands along her arms, up her neck, to cradle her jaw. The dim light catches a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. He returns the smile, pulling her face towards him, in a gentle grip.
Feeling the press of his lips, she opens her mouth and lets his bitter come slide off of her tongue and onto his. He moans through his nose as it runs down his throat, thick and sharp.
Their lazy kisses, sticky and salty, linger on until someone’s boots clomp against the wooden floor outside of the distant entrance to the catacombs. Drummer’s voice calls out their codenames into the darkness.
Deacon wraps his arms around her thick waist and buries his face in her chest with a plaintive whine. The knot from the scarf around her neck digs rudely into his forehead.
“Duty calls,” Bullseye murmurs from above him.
“Mmmno. Five more minutes.” He kisses the exposed skin at the hollow of her throat and it’s her turn to shiver.
“I’m gonna need more than five minutes, Dee.” She chuckles, “You’re good but you’re not that good.”
Deacon recoils, clutching at pearls he didn’t wear because he wasn’t sure they went with the uniform. Bullseye mimics him with an exaggerated gasp.
He snickers at her attempt at theatrics, before pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, “Is that… Is that a challenge?”
Bullseye climbs from his lap, primly tugging the hem of Deacon’s skirt back down to his knees, helping to preserve his modesty, before standing up to her full height to wink at him.
“Absolutely.”